Maria
I wander freely through the massive mansion, picturing a future life here. It's already late September, and I've been gone for more than three months. Thoughts of going home no longer haunt me, and the bitterness I felt toward Mikhail for ruining my big plans in the Big Apple has vanished.
But the anxiety has not completely gone away.
I slip my phone out of the pocket of my denim skirt and look at the blank screen, regretting the horrible mistake I made. My fingertip runs over the smooth surface, and the lock screen lights up.
Should I try to reach out to Zakhar? Why isn't he reaching out to me?
Doesn't he care that he shot me?
Does he even know?
I scoff out loud and shove the phone back into my pocket. Why make excuses for Zakhar's violent behavior? I'm not defending a traito
